Full Circle
by cwby30
Summary: After his visit to the Twist Ranch, Ennis feels compelled to travel further than around the Wyoming coffeepot. So he does.


Full Circle

After that short visit to the Ranch he became restless, feeling an urge to move on, tired of going nowhere, of going no further than around the same coffeepot endlessly looking for the handle. So, the following Spring when calving finished he quit his job, cashed his last paycheck, emptied the tin can holding his some-day-a-ranch cash, packed up his few belongings, closed the door on his past life, and drove away from Wyoming.

His daughters received birthday cards and Christmas cards from places all over the West, places in Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregon, even California. But no two ever came from the same place. He signed them simply as their loving father, and enclosed what cash he could spare.

As time passed, he acquired a newer pickup truck with a removable walk-in camper. When he found work, he would set the camper on its four braces, and use the truck for transportation. He always worked hard and long, always kept mostly to himself, always became well-liked, always left on good terms, always left a day or two after finding physical relief with another man behind some dreary roadhouse or in some isolated roadside rest stop.

He was lonely, but never alone, for Jack Twist still visited him in his dreams.

Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico.

Three years later on a Friday afternoon in April he parked opposite Newsome Farm Equipment, wondering for the umpteenth time what he ever expected to find there. The lights went out one by one, and two figures paused under the lone light outside the front door of the darkened building. The woman with blond hair wearing the dark no-nonsense business suit locked the door, while the tall dark-haired young man wearing jeans and a black Resistol hat punctuated his words with gestures so like his father had done. Mother and son. Lureen and Bobby. Jack's family. Lureen with her arms crossed as Bobby stomped off. Nothing for him there.

He found the marker at the cemetery the following morning, surrounded by strangers in a place not of his choosing, in death as in life. He knelt and wept and left some wildflowers he had picked in a field. Nothing left for him there, either.

He didn't notice the young man wearing a black Resistol hat, sitting in the black truck a short distance away, watching. The young man found something there.

Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado.

Nearly six years since the first time. The Ranch looked more worn, almost bereft of life, except for the dozen or so cars and trucks parked haphazardly near the house. He found a parking spot between a truck and a stationwagon, glad he had spent the money on a motel room the night before and had dressed in his least-worn outfit. Entering the front room, he nodded to strangers and saw her sitting on a sofa, smiling wearily to well-wishers filing past the open coffin.

No longer restless, not feeling the need to move on, tired of going around the coffeepot looking for the handle and never finding it, wanting to rest among friends in a place of his choosing, he accepted her offer to sit by her side.

The birthday cards and Christmas cards bore the same postmark that year. Frannie tracked him down first, showed up with husband and a child in tow. Junior followed a week later, no husband any more, two children in tow. He promised to keep in touch, and kept his promise, not wanting to be a stranger to his family.

In the Spring he drove down to Laramie hoping to find some anonymous physical relief far from his home. He found it with the owner of a "gentlemen's" bar, in the small apartment over the bar. He planned to leave immediately afterwards, then in the morning, then the following morning. He mentally apologized to Jack, for giving in to the strong attraction to this younger man.

Years on years they met up as often as they could, but at least every month. Sometimes in Laramie, where he became friendly if not friends with others like himself. Sometimes at the Ranch, where she baked cherry cakes and set three places at the table and refused to let his guest stay anywhere but in the same room with him. Mostly at their cabin up in the Bighorns where they unwound in the pleasures of the mountains and each other.

No longer lonely, never alone, Jack Twist still visited him in his dreams, though not as often.

Nine years later, two things changed this arrangement permanently. She died peacefully on a cheerful June afternoon with Ennis holding her hand, the warm breeze lazily moving the lace curtains framing her bedroom window. No longer feeling the need to hide, living among friends in a place of his choosing, he asked Nate to stand by his side in the front room as the well-wishers filed past the open coffin.

Then, hardly a month passed when a man forced his way into the office after closing-time at the bar, hit Nate over the head with a pipe, and stole $1,537.50 cash and two bottles of Jim Beam whiskey. He spent the next four days sitting next to Nate's bed in the intensive care unit, agonizing over the potential loss of his partner, berating himself for not being there a second time. After another week in a private room, he drove the two of them to the Ranch.

The bar found a new owner, and he found out that Nate had more money than what the new owners paid for the bar. A whole lot more. From the sale of the family ranches years before when, through deaths, he became the last of his family.

The Ranch gradually shed its weariness, and took on an air of prosperity unseen in decades. The old grieving plain received a new fence and gate, mowed grass, fresh flowers on two gravesites every month, and an endowment to maintain it for years to come.

They lived quietly and modestly, visiting their cabin each month. They avoided bars and roadhouses, and ate dinner almost every Friday night at the Bluebird Café in town. Friends came for dinner and helped with round-up and branding. They did likewise with their friends.

On their anniversary each year, they drove to Laramie and raised a glass with friends at the bar before heading upstairs for the night, thanks to that extra provision included in the agreement when the bar sold. They drove to see his family, missed hardly a birthday or graduation or wedding. They drove to the Dakotas and up into Canada, and even drove to the coast of Oregon to see the Pacific Ocean. Never to Brokeback Mountain, though, viewing it only from the highway, rising jaggedly above the clouds in the distance.

His children accepted the situation, preferring not to address it directly. The grandkids visited regularly, most of them eager to ride and learn some ranching ways, some of them asking why they didn't have a computer, all of them thanking Grandpa and Uncle Nate for the good time as they left. The visits slacked off as they entered high school and college, then started jobs and families. But almost all made the annual ranch rodeo each July. Bobby and his family came occasionally, too.

Bobby had arrived alone and unannounced one September Saturday afternoon shortly after his grandmother had died, carrying the urn holding the other half of Jack's ashes. They laid the combined ashes in the same resting place as before, Jack once again on the land of his youth. He knelt and wept and left some wildflowers he had picked from her garden outside the kitchen door. Then he grasped the strong hand reaching down to him, and stood next to the grave without letting it go. He had everything he needed, right there.

Gradually, reluctantly, they slowed down, giving in slightly to age without bowing before it. They limited their trips to visiting family and friends and going to the cabin, with some side trips but not leaving the State. They preferred their own company, simply smiling when some of the grandkids wondered out loud how they could live happily in such an out-of-the-way place. Even if they did have a computer and the internet and email.

Later on one of those same grandkids moved into a house built for him and his new wife, and took over the daily operations of the Ranch while keeping a watchful eye on Grandpa and Uncle Nate. Another one of those same grandkids became a State senator, sponsoring legislation to protect the rights of gay persons. Another became partner in an accounting firm in Cheyenne, handling the Ranch accounts and Uncle Nate's accounts. Another came home from Iraq missing the lower half of one leg but not missing his smile or spirit. Another hit the rodeo circuit as a bronc rider, sending his winner's buckles to the Ranch for safe-keeping, in the glass case next to one of Jack's.

Years later the email and telephone call arrived from the Ranch.

He died peacefully on an unusually warm afternoon in early November when he was not yet 86, with Nate holding his hand, the breeze lazily moving the curtains framing their bedroom window. Junior and Frannie sat on either side of Uncle Nate on the sofa in the front room as the well-wishers filed past the open coffin.

The following May they met up on Brokeback Mountain, using his specific directions to find a particular grassy knoll. There, they combined the ashes from two separate urns and two old shirts, and then cast them to the winds, watching them rise, swirl, fall, dissipate, until mingled forever with that special place.

Was it their imaginations? Was it really the laughter of two young men that they heard? Or was it just the wind in the pine trees welcoming back two souls.

The End


End file.
